


Ever After III: Getting Free

by Teland



Series: Ever After [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dystopia, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-11-11
Updated: 1998-11-11
Packaged: 2020-12-07 10:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20974328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Lives get smaller, lives expand.





	Ever After III: Getting Free

******  
I'm gonna rescue you, I'm gonna set you free tonight,   
baby...  
******

Mulder lay curled on the rank, dusty pallet and immediately  
yanked himself out of the grim little fantasy. He was   
Mulder, and he was curled, but the bed was soft and clean.   
He was never quite sure when it happened, but the sheets   
were always clean. There was no smell here less palatable   
than himself.

He opened his eyes to stained grey/blandly beige walls,   
tried idly to make the hazy bars of the fantasy...

//It's a *door*. A fucking *door*.//

... dance to the patterns of his mind. The room was a cell,   
but it was brightly blandly cheerful. There were no rats,   
the sheetswere clean. The screams of the other prisoners,   
presuming there were any, were blocked by the thick walls.

Not padded. They either trusted him to avoid the amateur   
theatrics the stone suggested, or longed for him to provide   
the entertainment. Lord knew he didn't jerk off anymore. 

In the old days -- he was no longer sure if it had been   
weeks or months, but his pride refused to allow him to   
consider the idea that it may have only been days -- They   
had been more... creative in their attempts to get him to   
talk.

//"Mulder... Mulder, wake up."

//"Alex, what--"

//"Shh, they don't know I'm here. I had to do a lot of   
scuttling to get the price off my head."

//"But... but you said you wouldn't--

//Rough hand, soft on his face. The bruises from his   
capture had begun to heal. Faster than he'd expected, and   
that suggested drugs.

//"It's OK, Mulder, it's OK... Fuck, that's a lie, but they   
took out everyone I was working with months back. Gave me a   
choice."

//"And you chose... this? Alex, why?"

//The hand had worked its way into his hair, carding the   
strands with the sort of carefully gentle restlessness he'd   
come to dream of. "God, Mulder, I'm so sorry... they told   
me they had you. Showed me pictures-- I couldn't take the   
chance, I *couldn't*. By the time I figured out you hadn't   
been taken at all, they'd set you up too neatly for you to   
escape--"

//Mulder swallowed, tried and failed to force himself to   
shake free, to stop breathing in the scent of leather and   
razorwire the man trailed even when nude -- silky-hot and   
near silent except those few times they could both be sure   
they were truly alone. "Why... why are you here now?"

//Brief bark of laughter in the dimness. "Haven't we done  
this already? I'm here for you. Christ, Mulder, just tell   
Them what they want to know. And then we can be together   
always. I love you--" And then Alex was burying his face in   
Mulder's neck, whispering soft and harsh. "I need you so   
much...."

//Mulder felt himself heavy and hard in the anonymous   
sweats, felt tears start to roll even as he wrapped his   
arms around the other man and pulled him closer. "Oh, God,   
Alex I can't... I can't do this... I love you so much but I   
*can't*--"

//Alex pulled back angrily. "I taught you to *survive*,   
Mulder."

//Mulder smiled ruefully, reached up to touch the loved   
face one last time. "You also taught me about the sweetness   
of a truly beautiful lie."

//Alex stared blankly for a moment before pulling off the   
bed, morphing into black-haired Scully. He would never call   
*that* Dana. 

//"You always were a fool, Mulder." And then the   
shapeshifter was gone with a neatly professional sway and   
click click click of the most sensible heels ever   
fashioned.//

After that, there had been more blank time, fast and   
intangible. More drugs, then... but the shapeshifter had   
been correct about nearly everything. He didn't let himself   
muse on the fact that the only error was in making "Alex"   
voice his feelings so clearly... It had been enough to feel   
it in the roll of his bones, the light vibration of a   
moaning throat. 

But, Alex *had* taught him several neat tricks to survival,   
including the long, long two weeks when they'd done nothing  
but fill Mulder full of assorted truth drugs until he   
started developing immunities and learned to babble of   
useless things instead of dangerous ones.

That was still when things were calm -- nothing but the   
hard-regained X Files and the occasional dress down from   
Skinner. Dana...

//Scully. Scully. Scully, come back.//

... had given him several odd looks over the next months --   
the immunization process took time -- and Mulder sincerely   
hoped he'd told her something useful one of those days. As   
opposed to just meaninglessly factual.

He feared there were too many comments about her need to   
eat less rabbit food, though, and was grateful the memories   
were hazy at best.

He didn't like to look at his hands anymore, and the throb   
of poor healing suggested they desired privacy as well. One   
day he'd come back to himself at sharp pain and harsh   
voices. That was a mercifully brief phase of awareness --

//Remember, Mulder -- the best defense is a distinct lack   
of consciousness.//

\-- and then just the black. The black was beautiful and   
soft, and could hide anything at all. Of course, that meant   
monsters, too, but he lived and fed and cried at monsters   
every day. The only fear was of forever. And sometimes out   
of the black came the voices he missed most. 

Throaty and matter of fact, snapping and smiling despite   
herself.

Husky and needful, knowing and gentle and he missed so   
much... Such a brief time and he often pored over the   
memories, looking for times he could've been more assiduous   
in his taking. Greedier. Alex would've appreciated it,   
though Mulder had hated the urge to hold him tighter still   
when the bone-fatigue of encroaching dawn threatened to   
take him away.

//"You're not helping us to get past the Tragic Lovers   
theme, Alex."

//"I don't know, I always kinda wanted to be a part of my   
own theme."

//"Think of all the morning hard-ons going unsatisfied."

//"Who says -- *oh* -- you mean *yours*."

//"Slut."

//"Yes?"

//"Just checking."

//"I'm here, Mulder. Even when... I'm here, all right?"

//The smile felt lazy, sweet on his face. "All right.   
Remind me next time that we're going to work on that   
communication thing."

//Blitzkrieg kiss, whipping and lovely, ending with a slow   
nibble on his much-abused lower lip. "Mmmm... before or   
after the knives and poison?"

//"After. But before the wild lions show up."//

There was just enough time to curse himself for not arching   
up to brush himself, naked and sticky, against all that   
leather and denim, for not sucking on Alex's tongue long   
enough to earn just one more hungry little groan, before   
another voice broke the stillness.

"Mulder? Mulder, wake up."

Sweet, gentle and just a little too high. 

Byers, then, and it hadn't taken him long the first time to   
realize this one, at least, was no denizen of his black.

//"Mulder, shh, it's Byers."

//"John?" Choked, but still clear enough to understand.

//"Yes, Mulder. Please, I don't understand... why won't you   
just tell them?"//

But Byers had never yelled, or hit him, or tried very hard   
to seduce him away from what little of himself he'd managed   
to hold on to. And these times were necessary. Cool water   
in the desert and he could not, could not care how   
stereotypically victimized his small acquiescence to these   
visits made him.

"I'm awake, John. What's new in the Fascistest Place on   
Earth?"

******

Walter never grew tired of the utter stupidity of a   
complacent enemy. This facility -- Growth Installation 412B   
was the official designation -- had been built quickly,   
most probably by locals. Stupid not to use the army, or   
even the reserve. They would've known to clear the brief   
stretch of woods away. 

Though they may have chosen not to share such things.

The woods were sparse, bare with winter and whatever else   
clouded the atmosphere these days, but more than sufficient   
to cloak his companion and himself. The perimeter guards   
had been bored and chilly -- easy prey. 

Alex was jittered and strung. Lean weapon blending with the   
night, longing for a target with every fiber of his being.

"T minus two, Walt."

Cool and sleek and Walter's blood was up, high pound even   
and natural in his ears. "Objectives."

"Mayhem and murder, Walt. No prisoners, no mercy. In and   
out in five. Take nothing that won't fit in a pocket."

"Charges?"

"Planted at east and south, north isn't registering. The   
modifications appear to be working."

"We'll see when we blow it."

A pause, and, as always at these times, Walter counted down  
himself. Mother, father, dead and gone. Brother vague and   
distant memory -- meningitis, just as gone. Himself, still   
alive and damned if these times didn't make it almost   
worthwhile.

"Four, three, two..."

And Walter was off, hearing nothing but the absence of   
pound and breath that was his partner at his best. Others   
at the gate and Alex took them both with one punch of the   
prosthesis. It hadn't taken long to find out that the   
seemingly empty socket was really just a more convenient   
than usual weapon. 

//They gave me a choice, Walt. A new arm would've required   
months of retraining. Regenerate a little muscle, a few   
nerves... Hell, I'd already spent years trying and failing   
to use it like an arm any fucking way.//

Racing and racing and inside, shades darkening to accept   
the sudden burst of white. Stark and ugly and no need for   
any gleaming entryways replete with polished secretaries   
and potted plants... no one to fool anymore. 

Row after row of massive plastic tubes. Coffins for the   
mothers, birthing chambers for the new spawn. Word was   
there was still no way to control the dangerous little   
halflings, but that didn't stop the breeding. 

Alex went right, Walter left, setting charges as they went.   
The sunset scout had revealed a back entrance, and this was   
the goal. No alarm yet but --

A clump of stumbling guards. Human this time. Four men, and  
if any one of them was a day over eighteen then that *was*   
lemonade staining the third one's neat white jumper. 

//No prisoners.//

And this semiautomatic made no claims to silence, but the   
boys were down before their shaky little hands could get   
their own guns free of the neat, new holsters. Walter   
placed a charge on the messy pile of bodies. No reason to   
give their parents anything to be ashamed of. 

Back and back and it was getting darker here, dim and warm   
for those halflings further along in their gestation. A row   
of grotesquely pregnant women, a row of things he'd never   
wanted to see, a row of nascent enemies. Walter set the   
last charges. When he made it to the door Alex was already   
there, bleeding from the face and holding his side. 

"Found something that fit in my pocket."

Walter nodded, knocked the door open. If they made it out   
there'd be time to discuss whatever Alex had found. The   
alarm went off but they were running and running and when   
Alex hit the button they were already two miles away and   
the wind was hot and fierce on their backs. 

******

John made an effort to look at Mulder, but it was always   
difficult to do that with the prisoners at times like   
these.

"You're quiet today, John. I know the inner workings of   
totalitarian regimes tend to be deadly dull save for the   
occasional boy flogging and rape, but --"

"Christ, Mulder. You couldn't just give a little, could   
you?"

John stood up from his sturdy little chair -- always   
brought in for him by some namelessly sturdy and large man   
for these visits -- and raked his hand through his hair. 

"You know I can't."

Mulder's voice was as quiet as ever. He'd never even yelled   
at him for being here, being this... whatever he was. The   
first time John had asked if he could speak to the   
prisoners he was just trying to look useful.

Not everyone in the new order had their very own bearded   
catamite, pliant and unobtrusive. Langly had been angry   
when he'd heard. Raised his hand. Didn't hit him, but once   
tends to be enough for some things.

//"They need a gentle hand, Langly!"

//"They don't need anything but a bullet, Princess.   
Remember that."

//"They wouldn't still be alive and pissing you off if they   
talked."

//Glitter flash in hazel eyes and he remembered when that   
had meant more than just the anger of a knife finding   
itself far too clean. "And you think you can get them to   
talk, Princess?" Cold and dangerous, and even now that it   
was no longer just fantasy material the effect on him was   
the same.

//John sidled up in a way he'd never thought he'd know how  
to do, tilted back his chin. No challenge, simple offer.   
"Let me try. I want... I want to be good for you."

//And John had wondered when simple truth had become   
such a wonderful tool, but it didn't matter when Langly   
pulled him close...//

"What is it, John?"

John laughed, and the sound was not too dissimilar to the   
one he'd given upon finding himself here. "You can't   
seriously be asking me that question, Mulder."

He turned to see the other man lounging on the rumpled bed   
with casual grace. The bruises could have been only shadows   
in the dimness, though the lines around Mulder's mouth were   
tight, and far too deep.

"Do you know what I'm here for today?"

"Another game of twenty questions I won't answer and more   
babble about my nonexistent love life?"

In response John pulled the syringe from the inside pocket   
of his jacket, still sealed neatly in plastic. 

"New and interesting truth serum? Hey, that last one gave   
me some wicked visuals. For a while there you had these   
cute little antennae --"

"It's not a new serum."

The smile faded slowly, leaving only curiosity in its wake.

"I wasn't aware you were pulling clean-up duty these days."

"It's been a long time, Mulder. They've decided any   
information you might have had is out of date, anyway."

Mulder nodded, settled himself into a seated position, and   
began to roll up his sleeve before he stopped, wincing.

"What is it?"

Mulder touched his leg and suddenly there was red staining   
the plain, grey sweats. "Broke open an old wound, I'm   
guessing."

"Oh. Oh. I'm so sorry, Mulder..." And he was, but John   
still cursed himself for saying it now. 

"Eh. Not much longer, right?"

John swallowed, and wondered if it had been better or worse   
that it was Langly who'd clapped the syringe in his palm   
before sending him off. Before he quite knew what he was   
doing, he was sitting beside Mulder on the bed, dabbing   
ineffectually at the blood.

"Blood on my firm, young thighs, no one to kiss it away...   
Such a tragedy."

John looked at the hopelessly stained hankie before tucking   
it back in his jacket. "I preferred the movie, myself."

Mulder grinned, finished rolling up his sleeve, and settled   
his hands on his lap. Not together, of course. The gnarled   
things probably couldn't do that anymore. "I never saw the   
film version, actually."

"Never? You probably deserve this, then."

Bark of laughter. "Black humor suits you better than I   
would've suspected, John."

John wasn't sure how he should respond to that, so he   
settled for going back to the prior line of thought.   
"Please tell me you at least saw the Rivera version."

"Vanessa Williams."

"Mulder, that's wrong on so *many* levels --"

"Hey, she was good. I took... I took Dana to see it after   
she'd come back from the abduction. In New York for some   
bullshit case... I made her get all dressed up. I honestly   
think she thought I'd make her sit through a Knicks   
game..."

John nodded and hmmed at what were probably the right   
places, but his thoughts were with Garcia. She had been the   
first prisoner he'd been allowed to see -- long, curly hair   
and so far gone that John had never been anyone other than   
"Father Kevin." 

He'd been ordered not to correct her, especially since   
Garcia's confession had been lengthy and detailed. John had   
studied well, and the night before she was due to be   
executed he'd given her the Last Rites. Yet he had not   
prayed for himself, and it hadn't been long before he held   
the needles himself. They all came to trust him, after all.

"... and, besides, the Spider Woman was the epitome of   
liebestod. Not even. Death, yeah, but not love... Sex. No   
way a sixty year old woman should be Sex."

"Now who's being the fascist?"

"Hey, if I lived until I was sixty maybe I'd feel   
different. But I'd probably still drool over pneumatic   
blondes in tight clothing."

John snickered, felt something lift he hadn't been aware   
had been pressing. He wanted to hold it there, but there   
was no time or space in this place to gather himself   
properly. 

//So roll with it.//

"Besides, I think they were saying that the only love *was*   
in death."

"Ah, I love artistic types. Who else can pull beauty out of   
bullshit?"

"Farmers?"

"Hmm... Well, who else can look so cool in all black?"

"Bikers?"

"Damn. I'm floundering here, John."

"Ummm... no one else can angst so attractively?"

Low chuckle. "No, I'm afraid Alex told me once that I wore   
guilt beautifully."

"One could never fault the man for taste."

"Heh. Did you ever meet Marita Covarrubias?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Then I'll allow you to hold on to your pleasant little   
fantasy."

"You're a gracious man, Mulder."

"Yes, well, I try."

Long, companionable silence and John thought of other   
nights. Good beer and the pleasant rest spaces between   
tales of paranoia and random oddities. He wondered where   
Frohike was.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you tell me why? I mean, I'm just curious."

No one had ever asked, and the question was strange to him.

//Did I ever ask myself?//

"I... There were all the landings, and people were losing   
it all over the place. It was insane. I remember we tried   
to reach you, but you were already..."

"In Walla Walla, yes."

"I thought it was Texarkana."

"I lied."

"I can't tell you how disappointed that makes me."

More low laughter and John wondered for the first time how   
he'd *really* gotten here, Langly or no Langly.

"I remember watching some reporter on television laughing   
and crying and basically doing everything but piss himself   
\-- though I could be wrong, they only showed him from the   
waist up -- and I remember this soft little thump. Not a   
sound, just a feeling. And I remember Langly waking me up   
with a blow job."

"How long had the two of you been together?"

"A year and a half... I never suspected."

"Yeah, well, no one did. So, you loved him enough..."

"Yeah."

And John remembered his own little room, much darker than   
this one. He'd been no political prisoner, and there'd been   
no need to impress him with delicious slices of irony.   
There was the day he'd spat in Langly's face, and the   
answering backhand, and the salt in his mouth could have   
been either tears or blood when he'd cradled Langly's head   
in his lap, and listened to tales of corruption.

"Yeah. I loved him. I love him."

Mulder only nodded, and John wondered if this would be   
happening quite this way if the illusion they'd provided   
for Mulder had been more accurate. 

"I'm ready, John."

******

Minivan number six but nothing was moving but an   
irritatingly tepid cloth over the wound in his side. The   
cooler somehow managed to be less comfortable to sit on   
than cold, stony ground and Alex had never wanted this man   
to kneel between his legs any less than he did now.

"It's just a fucking flesh wound, Walter, let's *move*."

"Shut up and sit still. The last thing we need is for you   
to go septic."

"Then dump some alcohol, slap on the gauze and *then* let's   
move."

"Easy, dammit, this looks deep."

Calloused fingers dancing over his ribs and Alex twitched   
hard, awake and aware of everything. Yet another reason to   
work alone -- if he wanted to jerk off at the smell of   
lingering cordite and just the fact that he remained alive,   
no one would ever see...

That was a thumb pressing hard against his side, smoothing   
the tape down in what he knew would be a perfect, even   
line. Alex stared angrily over one shoulder -- comfortably   
ensconced in a tee shirt now that the raid was done -- and   
tried to think of anything but his own cock.

But the thumb never left his skin, just slid to the center   
of his chest and stayed there. 

//Oh Jesus.//

"Alex."

He could feel the other man's head just beside his own. The   
cut throbbed, his dick throbbed and Walter was still   
kneeling between his legs.

"Just you and me here, old man."

"Takes more than a day --"

"Shut the fuck up."

Awkward, beautifully painful shift and he'd yanked Walter's   
hand to his cock and nudged them mouth to mouth with a will   
and his own face. "Just. Shut. Up."

Walter's mouth was an acid burn of adrenaline and dying   
fear, thick tongue battling his own into welcome   
submission. The hand at his crotch squeezed and kneaded and   
Alex bucked into it mindlessly. Quick move and he was on   
the floor, on his back, damned happy they'd thought to   
ditch the removable seat and Walter was tearing at his   
jeans.

"C'mon, man, c'mon--"

And getting free was good. Fast and dirty and good and he   
wanted Walter to slide right down and take him in, to slam   
his body against Alex's own and shift and thrust and slide   
until the musk was higher than the gun oil for just fucking   
once but jerking into Walter's fist was good, too.

Alex could hear himself grunting and moaning into the   
dimness but couldn't care about the noise, not with those   
deep chocolate eyes boring down into his own, watching him   
for something he sincerely hoped he was giving because this   
would never be   
Mulder again.

Mulder wouldn't have understood this black need anyway. Or   
maybe he would've but he damned well wasn't there and the  
tight hot bulge nudging his hip was rough counterpoint to   
the other man's jerks and squeezes.

"Walter--"

No more words because the other man was down and over and   
around him, hand never leaving his cock, mouth sealed to   
his own, pulling out the cries with his come and leaving   
Alex breathless and panting.

But the sleepy haze that wanted to descend was too much   
like other times, and had no place here. Alex shot up,   
heedless of the sharp, warm pull of the wound and reached   
for Walter's hand. Caught his eye before lapping the palm   
and fingers clean. Twined it with his own and brought it to   
the other man's cock, still trapped in his own jeans.

"You want this?"

"If this is revenge for rejection couldn't you just kick me   
in the head, instead?"

Alex's smile felt merrily dark, and the way Walter brought   
their hands tighter against himself made him want to smile   
like that until his jaw fell off. No more time for teasing,   
then, and Alex undid their fingers for just long enough to   
undo Walter's pants, tug him free of the worn boxers. And   
then he made sure they locked eyes and hands again, and   
began to stroke.

He let Walter choose the rhythm, and it was easy to just go   
with it, lose himself in dark eyes that never once lost   
their focus on his own, even as the other man's hips   
slutted themselves into their palms.

Thud of blood, high singing wire of tension and they might   
as well have been tethered together by it because no one,   
no one would ever be able to convince Alex that his   
thoughts weren't a match for Walter's own.

//Just us.

//Just this.

//Just fine.

//Until we die.//

******

By the time John had returned to their quarters Langly was   
asleep. His hair had begun to grow out again from the last   
buzz, and it crested like a bird's against the pillow. No   
one else had ever claimed to love him, need him. No one   
else. He ran his hand over it lightly, settled in to watch   
the other man sleep.

And began to think.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> 10/10/2019 Note: Fuck, this story is mean. I absolutely would not have twisted the knife so many times... *shakes head*
> 
> Still, Vanessa Williams really was great in that musical.


End file.
